


The Boy With The Thorn in His Side

by totilott



Series: A Groovy Kind of Love [21]
Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League International (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Depression, M/M, The Conglomerate, i didn't want to tag it in a way that gave people false hopes okay, secondary characters having sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21819169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totilott/pseuds/totilott
Summary: Booster struggles to find his place as the so-called leader of the Conglomerate.
Series: A Groovy Kind of Love [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282328
Kudos: 40





	The Boy With The Thorn in His Side

“I’m sorry, what?” Booster shouts over the wind, scanning the factory rooftop for a door, a glass window, anything to act as an entrance. The tall lanky man he’s carrying clings to his shoulders and swears as a particularly strong gale takes hold of them.

“They’re telling me they’re not happy about the jacket thing, Booster,” comes Claire’s distorted voice over his earpiece.

“The girl was _freezing,_ ” Booster objects, trying not to notice how the sleet gathers in his collar and runs down his neck. At least he’s got his suit to keep him warm, while the office girl made it out in nothing but a skirt and silk blouse. “Claire, it's -- It’s just a jacket.”

“Yes, I know, but they -- What? Hang on, Booster,” Claire tells him through the earpiece, and Booster can just about hear her muffled voice speaking to the rest of the support team. “They’re worried about the group photo after, the presentation of the new look. You’ll be the only one without the jacket.”

Booster spots a heavy steel door next to one of the chimneys, in front of the gigantic sign of Bowen Pharmaceuticals, and tries to fly over without getting knocked off course by the sleet and wind. It would be easier if he didn’t have to carry someone, or at least someone who was used to being carried in flight, but it is what it is. “Isn’t that the kind of thing you wanted? Selfless one-on-one hero action for the front page?”

“I’m just the messenger, Booster.” He can hear the smirk in her voice. “Did Tom get a picture? We can spin it if we’ve got a picture.”

“There’s no picture,” the young man in Booster’s grasp sneers, teeth chattering in the cold. Tom Weaver, world-renowned photographer, lets out a little whoop of surprise as a gale takes hold of them again. “Jesus fuck. Yeah, Mr. Gallant here didn’t fucking warn me, so I was on the other side of the gate shooting distraught factory workers.”

“What does it matter if I don’t have my jacket?” Booster sighs, touching down on the slick rooftop. “This is a hostage situation, you know. Let’s just, just deal with that first.” The Conglomerate might have a few missions under their belt, but they're hardly battle proven with lives on the line, and Claire’s team wants to moan about the loss of a leather jacket? He frowns, letting the photographer down.

“They’re just concerned about the visuals,” Claire replies. “They’re -- Wait. One moment.”

While Booster looks over the roof door -- locked, obviously -- he can hear the buzzing of Claire’s people through his earpiece. He hears Johnson, the head of promotions, whose voice has that booming way of carrying through a room, or through an earpiece in this case. Booster can’t make out the words, but he doesn’t sound happy at all.

Claire’s voice comes in loud and clear again. “Did you get her name?”

“Her name? Of course not,” Booster groans. Why does it matter? Why does everything matter so much? “Listen, we need to make our way inside. Can I talk to Prabhakar?”

“We’ll just have to do pick-ups later.” Johnson's voice coming through this time.

"Pick-ups?" Booster asks.

“I was not hired to do fucking _pick-ups,_ ” Tom sneers, blowing into his hands. “They’re not paying me this kind of money to do pick-ups.”

“Can I please talk to Prabhakar,” Booster tells Claire, or Johnson, or whoever is listening right now. “Is he there? What are pick-ups, anyway?” Booster peeks over the edge of the roof and squints against the wind. He can’t see anything in this weather. “Besides cars, I mean.”

Tom glares at him. “It’s going back and reshooting what we need, or in this case, just taking a photo so we fucking have one!”

Booster rubs his right eye, trying to get some of the sleet out. “Wait, so you want me to pretend to give someone else my jacket afterwards for a pic, and say it was taken earlier?”

“It's just to give readers a sense of continuity," Johnson reassures him over the air. "No one will know,”

“The girl with the jacket will sure as hell know,” Booster objects, stomping his feet trying to keep warm. “Fine, let’s forget about the fucking jacket. I need to talk to Prabhakar. Claire, hello? Can you get me Prabhakar?”

“Everybody does pick-ups,” Johnson tells him. “Everybody. Even Superman.”

“Well, _I_ don’t do pick-ups,” Tom sulks. “I’ve won a Robert Capa gold medal, you know. I didn’t win it for fucking _pick-ups_.”

“Please tell Mr. Weaver he's a goddamned photographer," Johnson sneers. "He was hired to take photographs, he can't just --”

Booster groans, raises his arm, and fires at the door full force with his wrist blaster. Tom stumbles back, wild-eyed, as another voice thunders in Booster’s ear, making him squint at the loudness.

“You _colossal idiot!"_

“Hi, Prabhakar,” Booster grins, happy to finally hear the voice of their tactical expert.

“Is this your idea of a stealth entry?" hisses the voice in his ear. "Anybody else in the state you want to tell your exact position?”

“I found a way in,” Booster replies brightly, pushing the crumpled door aside.

“Tell me, Booster,” Tom mutters behind him. “Are you like, _physically_ incapable of ever giving people a heads-up of what you’re about to do?” With a huff he pushes Booster aside, trots down the stairs and turns around, kneeling down, snapping a series of pictures as Booster descends the steps.

“I thought you used to be a war correspondent,” Booster says, squinting in the darkness, a little worried (or hopeful?) someone’s about to jump Tom as he kneels on the floor. “Not a lot of heads-ups in war zones, I thought.”

“Yeah, I thought doing vanity shots for superheroes would be a cushier line of work,” Tom mutters behind his camera. “More fool me. Working with you makes me miss Libya.”

“If you’re done bantering,” Prabhakar sighs in the earpiece.

Booster smirks, a little surprised at how reassuring it is to have someone to chat with during missions again. At least Tom’s arrogance and hostility is out in the open, easier to deal with than the subtle distrust among the Conglomerate. At least Tom is willing to _talk_ to him.

“I’m ready,” Booster says, that delicious jolt of energy in him at the prospect of doing real hero work again. “What do I need to know?”

“They’re holed up in the main control room. Four or five perps,” Prabhakar tells him. “And every single one knows where you are because you had to go in blasting.”

Booster chooses not answer as he opens a door into the hallway. More darkness. A vague smell of chemicals.

“They were interrupted stealing raw materials and panicked, so they’re not exactly highly organized,” Prabhakar continues. “They will act rashly when pressed, so you have to be very careful with these people.”

“Should I try to talk them down?” Booster whispers as he and Tom slowly make their way down the hallway, the only noise the _chhk_ of Tom's camera as he snaps pictures. Booster was never the diplomatic one -- those kinds of gigs were usually more suited for J’onn.

Can't delegate those conflicts anymore. It's Booster's job now, talking, calming down, striking deals. All him.

“Well, seeing as our surprise attack is out the window,” Prabhakar sighs bitterly. “We might as well try talking.”

“But you’ll -- you’ll guide me through it?” Booster mutters, thankful the rest of the Conglomerate are making their way in from the main entrance and can’t hear him hesitate. Some good comes from being the only one who can fly. “How are the others doing, by the way?”

There’s a murmur on the other end. “Hang on a moment, we’re gonna switch channels.” He knows Cynthia’s got an earpiece as well, as veteran of the ground team.

Could Cynthia be better at negotiating? She's young and a little high-strung, but she _has_ been in this game for a while. Or... Echo? Maybe they're fans of her music, maybe she can charm them to give up the hostages in exchange for autographs or backstage tickets or something. Maybe it doesn't have to be him. Maybe he doesn't have to fuck this one up.

The earpiece, annoying as it is, has already started to feel strangely comforting, like a lifeline. Most of all now, when he has to endure sudden radio silence.

Just a temporary measure while they're still debuting as a team, that's what Claire keeps assuring him. A way to make sure they give the right first impression to the public, make their sponsors look good. It's a support team of their choosing anyway, the sponsors, which might be why they're always clambering to be the one with the microphone, doing their respective employers proud. Just temporarily, until the team has become fully accepted by the public. Then Booster will be free of it, free to make his own decisions, make his own calls.

And then he'll _really_ get his chance to fuck things up.

Booster peeks into the room on the right, pulse thrumming in his ears -- but there are only empty desks and more darkness. Fuck, he wishes he had someone up here with him. Besides Tom. He's responsible for Tom now, too.

 _I told them I could fly a team member up here, but nooo._ Johnson in PR had vetoed that the photographer had to come. Those are the sort of choices Claire's team make for him. Booster leading team A, consisting of himself, and Cynthia leading team B, with everyone else.

Stupid.

There’s a dry crackling noise in Booster’s earpiece, and then silence. He waits for a voice that doesn't come. In the dark of a depowered factory with only a sullen photographer for company, he feels alone. Abandoned, like a deep sea diver who realises his life line has been cut.

He reminds himself he used to work alone, before the League. He did fine for himself all on his own -- or, well, he had Skeets. (He misses Skeets). But he did fine. For the most part he did fine. On his own. He just got spoiled working with the League, Batman and J'onn deciding on tactics, who should go where, do what.

He makes a face. His self-reliance. Another thing the League ruined for him. He needs to get back in the saddle, get comfortable making decisions again. That's all there is to it.

“So, uh,” Tom mutters behind him as they turn a corner and continue on. “Do you know where this main control room _is?”_

Booster swallows, not looking back. “We’re bound to find it eventually.”

“Should have asked before they cut you off, huh?”

Booster sets his jaw, deciding not to answer.

There’s a soft crackling in his earpiece once more.

“Yeah, um, Booster.” It’s Claire again, not Prabhakar as he predicted.

“We’re having a teensy tiny issue finding the control room,” Booster smirks, glancing back at Tom, who makes a face. “Care to give us a hint? And then if Prabhakar can --”

“Forget about the control room, Booster,” Claire tells him, her voice a little strained. “Just make your way down to the main entrance.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“You’ve done it.”

“Done what?” Booster licks his lips, pausing in the darkness.

“The hostages are rescued. The criminals have been arrested,” Claire tells him, a little flatly. “The Conglomerate saved the day.”

Booster coughs, something stuck in his throat. “Wh-- What?”

“Without a single fucking photograph to show the world,” Johnson thunders in the background. Then his voice becomes clear, approaching the microphone. “You go down there and post for group pics, Booster, and then you find _a_ _fucking jacket_ so we can get those pick-ups done.”

* * *

Booster presses the beer bottle against his forehead and closes his eyes. He's on his own, in the impressive main kitchen of their Conglomerate HQ, though he can hear muffled voices coming from the rec room next door. Trying to focus on the cold glass against his skin, trying to slow down everything inside him.

_Why are you like this right now?_

_We did good. Again. We did great, even._ _No one got hurt. The innocents were rescued, the criminals arrested._

_What’s Booster Gold’s bruised ego compared to that?_

He got to stand in front in the group pictures, grin and pose and be the main event. That's the stuff, isn't it? Grateful hostages crying, hugging him, thanking him, while he tried to not think about all he did today was to destroy a factory door on the roof while the rest of the team actually rescued people below. That's not the story the media will hear, of course, so it doesn't matter.

_It doesn't matter that you're useless. There's a promotional department to keep that secret for you._

Booster bites his lip and puts the beer down on the counter. There's gotta be a bottle opener in here somewhere. He begins rooting through the myriad of drawers.

What do they need all these utensils for anyway? Do they make enough food from scratch to warrant this? There’s a pasta press on the counter. Little curved metal instruments in the drawers he doesn’t even understand the purpose for. Do they use all this crap? Who even does the cooking? He can't imagine Maxi-Man or Echo slaving over the stove.

Not that he has the first clue about how life is in this building. The one member of this team who doesn't live here. That was his main demand back then, he was through living the dorm room life, and Claire got him an apartment down the block. He likes to imagine the others would have been given the same luxury if they’d thought to ask for it.

“Looking for something?”

He flinches like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t, and looks over his shoulders towards the voice. “Oh. Vapor.” He turns, grinning self-consciously. “How do you find anything in here?”

She’s changed out of her purple suit, opting for a comfortable-looking oversized sweater and blue tights. “Like...?”

He holds up his beer. “Like a bottle opener.”

She exhales softly, maybe out of annoyance, maybe out of amusement, and crosses the floor to a cupboard, where she produces a small plastic box from the shelf. “I can’t make any guarantees, Reverb never puts it back.”

 _See? Little conflicts like that._ Booster’s happy he doesn’t have to live like this anymore.

She produces a small steel bottle opener, gleaming enough to give the impression it was very expensive, and holds it up. “Tadaa,” she states flatly without so much as a smile.

“Thanks,” he says, grinning, and takes it. “And, um--” He falters. Something about Vapor’s cold disinterest always sets him on edge. “Thanks for... today. With the crowd, you know?” The factory workers, panicking, asking too many questions he wasn’t able to answer, wanting clear directions before Booster had even gotten hold of the situation inside. “You keep a cool head and you, you really saved my butt back there.” He gives her a self-conscious smile. “So thank you.”

She looks at him, something almost like a frown tensing her forehead, like she’s.... surprised. “Sure,” she mutters, and exits the room.

Booster takes a swig and exhales. He’ll win her over at some point, he’ll win them all over. They’re gonna like him in the end, whether they want to or not. He tries relaxing his shoulders and enters the rec room next door.

“It’s not fucking fair, is it,” Praxis mutters, resting his elbow on the pinball machine.

“Well, it’s not _her_ fault,” Maxi-Man protests from the couch.

“Henry, it’s fine,” Echo murmurs next to him.

“She’s encouraging it,” Praxis sneers. “Soaking in all the glory while I do all the heavy lifting.”

Echo makes a face. “Please, for every person you save, you creep on ten more.”

Praxis sets his bottle down on the pinball machine so hard the glass almost cracks. “What kind of bitch --”

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Booster asks in his most authoritative voice, frowning.

All eyes turn to him, and there's a pause as they regard him silently, suspiciously. When J’onn would interrupt a fight in the League they would always start defending their case, appeal to him, want him to see their point of view. Trying to shout each other down.

Not so when it’s Booster.

He sighs. “Praxis, what’re you mad about?” _This time_ , he almost adds.

Praxis sniffs, looking down at him, making him wait. “Well,” he mutters at last. “I think it’s fair to say today was more a... _solo_ gig.” He squints at the others. “And I think it’s fair to say _I_ did most of the work.”

“You didn’t,” Echo interjects without looking at him.

“But I don’t get any fucking interviews, do I?” Praxis snaps back. “They all flock around little miss slutty pop star over here --”

“Praxis --” Booster tells him.

“--Who’s only doing this job because she decided she’d look sexy in spandex!”

“I can’t control the reporters,” Booster tells him, massaging his temple. “I can’t just--”

“I don’t give a shit what _you_ can or can’t do, Gold,” Praxis draws up to his full, impressive heights, easily a head above Booster. He points a finger at him. “Just tell the little team who pulls your strings I want some fucking media presence too. That's all I need _you_ to do.”

Booster’s hand is clenching the bottle in his hand so hard he’s in danger of crushing it. He could smash it against his Praxis' stupid face, that would be a better use for it. Break his ugly nose with it. But that's not what a leader would do, is it? Booster takes a deep breath, and holds it in. “That’s a pretty stupid way to talk to your boss,” he mutters at last, breath whistling between his teeth.

“What," Praxis mocks him in an overly melodic tone. "I haven’t said a _word_ about miss Claire.”

 _Smash his nose and stuff the remainder of the bottle down his throat._ "Where’s --” Booster takes another deep breath, turning to the pair on the couch. “Where’s Reverb?” At least _someone's_ respecting the rules he's tried to lay down, keeping Praxis and Reverb separated at all times. Except for group shots.

Maxi-Man scratches the back of his head. “I haven’t seen him in a good while.”

“Last I heard, he was heading into the pantry for snacks,” Echo shrugs.

“Yeah, that was it,” Maxi-Man smiles, uncertain, a restless leg bouncing. “Man, I’ve been waiting for those nachos forever.”

“Yeah, I’ll --” Booster swallows, anger still burning inside him, refusing to look at Praxis for fear of what he might do if the cop even so much as smirks at him. “I’ll check out the snacks situation.”

He steps out, closing the door behind him, and then he quickly rears his hand back, holding his bottle tightly. _Booster Carter goes long, he's got a throwing arm that just won't quit tonight, another few points and we've got a new record, ladies and gentlemen._

Breathing in, holding it before he exhales, he looks unfocused at the cream-colored wall of the hallway, imagining the satisfying shattering of a half-empty beer bootle against it. Full force. His throwing arm was legendary once a upon a time. He blinks, remembering the smell of grass, the roar of the crowds, the warm glow of the stadium lights.

Thousands of strangers bursting with love and admiration for him.

Booster exhales, setting the glass bottle on the floor against the wall, and stands up again with a soft groan. _Getting older, Booster-boy._ He pulls a restless hand through his hair. And again, this time balling his hand into a fist, pulling just enough to make his scalp ache.

 _What the hell do you do when you reached your prime when you were twenty?_ He keeps burning his life down to the ground, thinking that starting anew will make all the difference.

Well, it doesn't.

Sighing, he makes his way to the pantry, long strides on the dark carpet until he remembers he's still in his hero gear, that he still has his flight ring on. He exhales and gently lifts up, feet leaving the floor, and flies down the corridor at a measured pace.

He constantly has that urge these days, to shoot out the window, jet speed to his quiet place far above the clouds, but he can't do that anymore. Not without the support team panicking, not without Claire telling him off for being out of reach. He's shackled to the ground by his very own team. It's all he can do to amuse himself with little flights whenever he can, even if he doesn’t have to, even when it makes getting from A to B a little more complicated, like in long corridors like this.

He feels a small step removed from all the bullshit when he doesn’t have to walk on the ground where it lives.

Wait. He pauses, something nagging at the back of his head. He just heard a noise. Muffled behind a door, so low it took him a few seconds to even realize he heard something.

Crying.

He frowns, flying slowly back to the black-painted door on his right, touching down on the carpeted floor without a sound. Yes. Definitely crying.

He knocks softly on the door. "Hello? Everything all right?"

"Booster?" Cynthia's voice is hoarse. "I-- Um, cuh-come in."

He opens the door, stepping into the room. A few boxes, still unpacked, a wide bed, a worn-looking teddy bear at the head, and Cynthia sitting cross-legged in the middle of it. She's hugging a pillow to her chest, her face red and puffy.

He walks up to her without a second thought, hunching down to look at her. "Cynthia, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing, Booster, it's n--" She gasps for air as another sob stops her from speaking.

"It's okay," he coos, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

She wipes her face with her sleeve. "I'm suh-sorry, I just need a minute and I'll-- I'll--"

"You need anything?" He studies her, concerned. "A glass of water, or--"

"Thank you, no," she tries to offer him a smile through her tears. "I'm, I'm calming down now, it's okay."

"Okay," he replies softly, letting her take her time. Trying not to speculate too much. Once her breathing has calmed, he asks. "Is it something with the others? Have they been mean to you, like, Praxis, or --?"

Cynthia chuckles softly, that little forceful exhale when you try to laugh after crying. "No, no, no one's been mean to me."

He makes a face. "Not even Praxis? I suppose he's just a big teddy bear when you talk to him, huh?"

With a weak smile, Cynthia pushes herself further up on the bed until her back is up against the wall. She looks at him. "Well... Praxis is Praxis. You know."

"Boy, do I," Booster smirks. He waits for Cynthia to speak, but she wipes her face and tries to calm her breathing, so he continues. "Claire tells me you did amazing today. Real leadership stuff." He offers her a grin.

"I--I don't know, things went pretty well, all things considered." She clears her throat. "I know I should be with the others celebrating, I know I should be happy, but..." She folds her hands in her lap, not looking at him. "It's just-- I thought I was starting to get over it, you know?"

Booster looks at her. "Over what?"

"My..." There's a twinge at the corner of her mouth. "My parents."

"Cynthia," he exclaims, frowning. "That happened _this year."_

"I mean, it --" She folds her hands harder. "Sometimes it'll hurt a little less, you know? Like I'm getting used to it, like it's, it's normal." She quickly brushes a lock of jet-black hear behind her ear. "And then, _bam!_ Something really tiny will just set it off, like -- and it hurts so much I can't even breathe."

"Yeah." Booster is dimly surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice.

"And it's kind of silly, because--" She looks up at him, her eyes still shining from the tears. "They weren't even a part of my life for years, like I left and did everything on my own, and -- this shouldn't be different, right?"

Something clammy and sore seems to grow in Booster's chest, pressing against his lungs.

She sniffs, still looking away. "They're not part of my life _again_ , just in a different way. It shouldn't be different."

"But it is," Booster mutters.

There's a pause, and that growing coldness is pressing pressing pressing in Booster's chest. Why is everything a trigger these days? He's exhausted at being angry, being sad, being frustrated, it just keeps going.

"Because, you--" he continues, trying to see if speaking will let some of the pressure out. "You love them even though you don't see them, and it feels..." He clears his throat. "It feels _safe_ , you know? Knowing they're out there and happy and--" God, where's all this coming from? "And then one day they're not out there anymore, and it's -- it _is_ different."

Cynthia's voice is so soft it's barely more than a whisper. "You've lost someone too."

"I had a sister." He inhales, looking away. "We were, ah, twins, actually." It doesn't sound right in the past tense. He'll be a twin until the day he dies, that's something he has to carry with him forever.

"I'm sorry," Cynthia murmurs.

"Look, I --" He clears his throat again, looking at her. "I shouldn't have forced you on this team. I knew that you, you'd just gone through all that and I gave you the whole song and dance to make you join." Being selfish again, because he wanted a friendly face on the team. Hurting the one decent person in this group. Leader material, right?

"You never forced me to join, Booster," she chuckles. "Really I -- I wanted to work, I couldn't just sit around being sad."

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Maybe there's something in sitting around being sad." He tried to push on, after Michelle. Tried to forget, just for tiny moments, keeping busy. Even if every moment he managed to push the grief away felt like a betrayal.

"I'm fine, Booster," she smiles. "When you offered me a spot, that was the first good thing to happen to me in a while. Really." She gives him a nudge towards the door, and he gets the message, standing up. He's getting too worked up with his own shit, she's allowed some space to work through her own things. _Everything has to be about Booster._

He looks at her, heavy with concern. "Okay, you just -- let me know if anything gets overwhelming."

"I will, Booster. Thank you." She smiles her sweet smile.

As he opens the door he hears her softly call out his name again.

"Yeah?"

She hesitates, a gentle frown on her face. "I just, you've been there. And I wonder. It... It does start to hurt less with time, doesn't it?"

He inhales, unsure. Pausing, trying to take a stock of everything heavy inside him, everything weighing him down. "No," he tells her softly. "But you get a little more used to the pain."

He closes the door behind him, a knot of worry in his stomach.

Why did he tell her that? Why does everything weigh him down like this these day? Why can't he handle Vapor's icy disapproval or Praxis' rudeness or... Cynthia's grief?

_Why can't I fix anything?_

His suggestion, to get Cynthia on the team. Even when he knew she was dealing with the murder of her parents. She should have had time to absorb that, work through it, but _he_ wanted a friendly face on his team. He wipes his face with his hand. As a leader, what's he supposed to do? Just... Throw her off the team for her own good? _Sorry sweetheart, I've changed my mind? Go mourn somewhere else?_

He walks on. Like he has a say in team membership. If he did, Praxis would already be out the door. He makes a face. Like their sponsors, or Claire, would want to get rid of a guy with powers like Praxis,. He handled the hostage situation today, didn't he? Just walked in, jumped into their heads and made them zonk out. No bloodshed, no violence, no lasting harm to anyone. Except his teammates, who have to deal with Praxis having a meltdown about not being in the spotlight enough.

The higher-ups would probably rather kick everyone else off the team, Booster included, before they'd get rid of Praxis. He's police, too, which gives the team a -- what did they call it? -- "an veneer of legitimacy".

Okay. He was on his way to do something. He scratches his neck. Why is he walking back here?

Right, the pantry. Snacks. They never planned for a pantry in this building, of course, the kitchen huge on its own, but Claire’s team had gone a little overboard stocking it, they had to put in shelves in one of the unused bedrooms. Probably where Booster would have stayed if he lived here.

He ponders the closed door. Would things be different, if he lived here with them? Every time he shows up he gets caught up butting heads with Praxis or Reverb or Vapor. The rest are pretty decent, aren't they? Probably? Well, they don't _trust_ him, but they only see him fighting their team mates and talking to Claire's support team through the earpiece. It's like there's a plexi-glass sheet separating him from the rest of the team.

He opens the door to the pantry, restless fingers tearing the door open quicker than he meant to.

Maybe if he spent more time with them he'd --

He startles at the presence of someone in the darkness of the room. The light from the corridor falls on a -- no, _two_ figures so close together it’s hard to tell what limb belongs to who, but as he jumps back Booster can tell that it's Reverb sitting on the freezer chest facing him, his strong brown legs wrapped around the photographer, Tom, who's thrusting energetically with his pants bunched around his ankles.

Reverb locks eyes with Booster and freezes. “ _Puneta!_ ” he exlaims, warranting Tom to twist around, and seeing Booster, flinch back and stoop down, clumsily trying to pull his pants back up, erection bouncing.

“Ohh _fuck,”_ Tom breathes, trying to get dressed while Reverb whoops with manic laughter. “Fuck!”

“Sorry!" Booster steps back, hands up, a weak shield between him and half-naked bodies in front of him. "Sorry. Look, I’ll -- just, um --” he stammers, slamming the door shut again, hugging himself as he stands in the empty corridor.

_Wow._

He leans against the wall, restless hand pulling through his hair before he leans his head back against the wall and exhales in a chuckle.

_Wow._

Before he’s had time to think the door opens and Tom hurries past, not looking at him.

Booster waits, but when Reverb fails to make an appearance he gives himself another ten seconds before he peers into the dark pantry. He’s relieved to see Reverb has gotten dressed as well in his costume, leather jacket slung over the freezer. He leans against the gleaming new appliance, flattening his mussed hair.

“Fuck you,” Reverb laughs when he spots Booster again. “Not even allowed to get lucky while we’re on this team, huh?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Booster mutters, surprised at the heat in his own face. Unusual for him to be flusteref at the idea of people having sex. He glances at the room. “There are better places for it, you know.”

“What, my room?" Reverb snorts. "That’s where they saved money, you know, making the walls paper thin. That’s --” He pauses, making a face. “Oh that’s right. You don’t live here. You’re too good for that.”

“Nice change of subject,” Booster replies, trying not to rise to the bait once again tonight.

There’s a pause, there in the darkness. Booster crosses his arms, looking down at the floor. His heart is beating so fast. So fast.

Reverb clears his throat. “So... Am I off the team or what?”

“I mean, it’s hardly sanitary but I don’t think --” Booster begins, then stop himself. “Oh! You mean like --” He looks up and chuckles, a little too forcefully. “No, of course not!”

Reverb studies him. “No?”

“No! I mean --” There’s something strangely elated in Booster’s chest. “I would never --” He grins, a little wildly. He’s never really met someone, a real someone, in this age who’s like himself. Not outside of an illegal club in Bialya. Not outside Ted who’d never even thought about other men like that before. “I’m like that too,” he blurts out. “You know? I -- I like guys too.”

Reverb tilts his head up, looking down at him with a frown. “So you mean, we...”

“We’re the same way.” Booster gestures from Reverb to himself. Someone like him. There are other heroes like him.

“What, so,” Reverb looks at him with suspicion. “You mean you’re not gonna tell on me if we hook up? That’s what you’re driving at here?”

“I-- _What?”_ Booster frowns, wide-eyed. “No!” He pulls his hand through his hair again, shocked at the suggestion. “Of course not! I’m just --" Is that the kind of person people think he is? "I was trying to say you, you don’t have to worry, I’m not going to tell anyone because I--”

“Good,” Reverb interjects. “Good. Because listen,” he squints at Booster, enunciating clearly. “This doesn’t make us friends. This doesn’t make us partners in crime, or whatever you’re looking for.” He draws up to his full height, glaring at Booster. “You knowing this? It makes us the opposite of friends. Got it?”

“Sure,” Booster mutters, his elation from before disappeared in a flash. Pushed way down into his stomach, where it aches and stings instead.

“And if you tell anyone I _will_ fucking kill you,” Reverb hisses, a dark gleam in his eye. “Just so we’re clear.”

“We are.”

Reverb scrunches his nose, holding Booster's gaze a few more seconds, unwavering, then he picks up his leather jacket, throws it over his shoulder and exits. Booster observes him as he walks down the hall and turns the corner.

Then Booster grabs a bag of nachos, waits another few minutes, and gently lifts off the ground, making his slow way back to the rec room.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember you can [VOTE](https://strawpoll.com/4xzwbygd) for what kind of silly shenanigans I should write for Booster and Ted once this arc is concluded!
> 
> To my knowledge there are only two Conglomerate missions in the comic books, so first call of order was giving them a little something to, while also introducing some other ideas.
> 
> If this chapter seems a little disjointed and depressing that has something to do with our point of view character, okay? I'm trying to get all my ducks in a row here, please have patience with me.
> 
>  **[Song:](https://open.spotify.com/user/tilly_stratford/playlist/4SqomvmhyncWPEAobYUZ88?si=DNXWufsLSs29KqRywW2U9A)**  
>  The boy with the thorn in his side - The Smiths


End file.
